


The homeless ones

by Petra



Category: Ashes to Ashes/Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-27
Updated: 2010-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-10 20:08:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/103784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first sign that she's dreaming is Gene bloody Hunt, who isn't real. The second sign is Sam Tyler. (Spoilers for LoM, none for A2A)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The homeless ones

**Author's Note:**

> For Porn Battle X, prompt: subconscious.

  
Alex isn't sure when she fell asleep. Still, this must be a dream. The first sign that she's dreaming is Gene bloody Hunt, who isn't real. The second sign is Sam Tyler, who's dead, and therefore highly unlikely to be anywhere near her bedroom unless she's in even more trouble than she has been lately. The third sign is that she's naked. She feels like she's about as drunk as she's been getting on a nightly basis since she met Gene, and they're not real, either of them.

That makes everything else easier.

Neither of them has their clothes on either. They're scattered all over the place, mixed in with the last thing she remembers wearing in a riot of who-dresses-you-oh-the-Eighties patterns and colors that makes her head hurt. When Sam smiles at her, a smile she never saw from him in life that's first cousin to a leer, she kisses him anyway.

Kissing Sam should taste like kissing a grave, all dust and ash, but he tastes like cheap red wine, like every other night in this imaginary place. His hands aren't frighteningly cold, his body is warm against her, and she doesn't have to put her lips on his neck for more than a moment to feel his pulse, as steady and sure as her own. "What's going on?" she asks him.

He raises his eyebrows and looks her over as though she ought to know. "Well, you're a gorgeous woman who's taken off her clothes with two naked blokes in her flat. I think you're calling the shots here."

Gene snorts and snugs up behind her, rude as ever but not in a way she wants to protest right now. If this is a dream, then she may as well roll her hips back against him and tease for all she's worth. "Fuck, Bolly, and me without any champagne."

She reaches back and smacks his side for that, though she should be used to the name by now. "I don't know what I want," Alex tells Sam. "Are you really here?"

He looks sad for a moment, then kisses her, wet and long, his tongue as alive in her mouth as anyone's could be. "Does it feel like I am?"

Alex sighs. "I'm dreaming."

"Bloody good dream." Gene cups her hips and runs his hands over her arse as possessively as if he has a rubber stamp in his hand again. "You dream like this a lot?"

She shakes her head. "No." Though she's had all sorts of upsetting dreams since she got there, most of the time they involved clowns and explosions, not disturbing and disturbingly attractive men.

Alex stares at Sam. She hasn't seen the full imaginary report on his death, but she's read the news report that Gene keeps on his bulletin board. He looks older, which makes sense, but uninjured. "Am I dreaming?"

Sam shrugs. "I used to ask myself that a lot. You know, the whole 'Am I a butterfly dreaming I'm a man or a man dreaming I'm a butterfly?' kind of Zen koan problem."

Gene nuzzles Alex's shoulder. "Or a ruddy poof dreaming you're a real man."

Those are fighting words, but they make Sam grin. "A ruddy poof in a room with a gorgeous woman? My lucky day."

"Yes, but are you really here?" Alex asks him.

"Do you think it's possible?" Sam asks, still calm. He's dead, damn it, dead twice over. He shouldn't be able to be this relaxed about the subject of his own existence. Or maybe he's exactly this relaxed because he's dead.

Alex groans, and not just because Gene has decided to nip at her earlobe. "God, I have no idea."

"Me neither." Sam licks his thumb and rubs it over her nipple. "Can we work with the theory that I'm real enough to make you feel something right now?"

She can feel the touch, though it's a little less real than she wants it to be. Or maybe it's perfectly real, but Gene rutting against her arse is distracting her so much she can't judge. In any case, it can't be real.

That means when she wakes up, wherever she wakes up, she won't have done anything that would make anyone think less of her, so she can do exactly what she wants right now. "Come here," Alex says, and wraps her arms round Sam.

He shivers in her arms and kisses her until she's dizzy between his gentleness and Gene's continued assault on her ears and neck. "What do you want, Alex?"

"Bed," she says, because even in a dream she doesn't want to hurt her knees. They make it there in a six-legged race, stumbling. She's not the only one who's drunk unless lust impairs them both even more than she would've guessed.

"Now what?" Gene asks, when she's lying between them. There is no room on this bed for three, which is extremely inconsiderate of her subconscious.

Alex wriggles round until she can kiss all the annoying, frustrating, irritating words right out of Gene's mouth before he can say them. Like Sam, he tastes of wine. She's been wishing she could see Sam for weeks now, but not for this, not like this. She's been wanting to touch Gene just as long.

She says, "There hasn't been a good time to tell you this, Guv, but I've been waiting for you to be civil enough to shag me."

Sam laughs, sounding sympathetic. "You'll have to keep waiting for that."

Gene snorts and kisses Alex again. "Ignore him," he says.

She's not going to argue, not while she's dreaming, not even with herself and all of the parts of her that know that she should never give Gene anything readily. "Let's do it."

"That's more like it." Gene squeezes her arse and pats her thigh. "Come on, then."

"God, you're a pair." Sam strokes Alex's hair, incongruously sweet by comparison to Gene. "I'll leave you to it."

Alex laughs at him, at herself for dreaming him that way. She hasn't had a proper sex dream in far too long, so she'd better take advantage of this one. Sam's not exactly her type--for one thing, if she thinks about it hard enough, he always struck her as a reasonable guy--but she's got, as it were, lemons. Time to make some lemonade.

"Don't go anywhere, Sam." She pokes Gene in the chest. "Look, I know you're only the dream version of yourself, but any arse who bends women over desks and makes them take their knickers down has one hell of an arse fixation himself. Right?"

He hesitates a moment before he answers her, as though he's trying to find some other excuse for his reprehensible, sexist "tradition." "If I say 'no,' you'll laugh me out of the room."

"Yes," Alex says firmly.

In unison with Sam, and she wasn't expecting that, but then as far as she can tell, if Sam was really ever there--the real one, not the dream one--then he would've known Gene quite well after several years, if it was several years--Alex catches herself getting too far away from the point of the dream. The dream gave her two naked men, both of whom appear randy and interested in her.

"Look, I'll just get on my knees," she tells Gene, and turns away from him to do it.

Sam's eyes are wide enough to glint in the dark when she looks at him. "Oh," he says. "And what should I do for you?"

Alex sighs. In a perfect dream, a man would know what the hell to do. He'd know what she wanted, where to put his fingers and his tongue, where to put his cock, all without requiring explicit damn instruction. Even her dreams are too complicated.

At least they're still themselves, even after she turns away from them. She thanks whatever providence is looking after her for that very small mercy and looks Sam over. "It's been too long since I gave a really good blowjob," she says, because Thatcherites don't damn well count in her book.

"Has it?" Sam laughs and shakes his head, looking away from her as though the admission embarrasses him somehow, though he's kneeling up to get in range. "Well, I can't exactly turn that down."

"Christ, Bolly, I take it all back," Gene says, his fingers teasing at her. "You don't have to live up to it this hard. I'll call you Mary from now on."

Alex glares over her shoulder at him. "You can go if you like." She pats Sam's hip and smiles up at him, a dare in her expression whether he can see it in that light or not. "I'm sure Sam and I will get on perfectly well without you."

She's trying to get Gene to act possessive, and she's not surprised that it works, though he does growl more impressively than she was expecting. He pushes his fingers into her, roughly enough that she gasps. "You're not staying in here to chat. Take apart the whole place, you would, nitpicking and psychiatricking everyone to death between you."

"Not likely," Sam says.

"Who said anything about talking?" Alex takes Sam's cock in her hand and licks him, and there's a taste she hasn't exactly missed, and a feeling she's only going to let herself have in dreams for a while, the solid girth of him on her tongue.

"Oh, God," Sam says.

Gene smacks Alex's arse in what she would tell him, were her mouth free, is the most predictable display of learned macho behavior she's seen yet. "You'd be better off talking," he says, though she isn't sure why that could possibly be true. It's certainly the first time she's ever heard Gene say that words would be better than actions.

She's not going to ask now, though, not when he's thrusting into her, shallowly at first, then more deeply. Besides, she's busy with Sam, who's breathing more heavily now, not quite in time with the way she's moving or the way Gene is.

What kind of sex dream gets the rhythm wrong? Alex wants to complain to the proper authorities as soon as she works out exactly who they are. It's getting the other details right, though. Sam's running his fingers through her hair, polite enough not to tug but not polite enough to keep his hands to himself.

Gene shags just like he would, grunts and groans, lingering on the upstroke and rushing the downstroke every time until Alex manages to get them in time enough to move with both of them for a little while. That helps, with her bobbing her head and filling her mouth, Gene working into her firm and steady, Sam making a soft, lost noise over the slip and slap of the noises bodies make during a good hard fuck.

Alex counts herself lucky that the dream hasn't seen fit to provide her with a proper porn soundtrack. She's had worse along the way. Then again, if they had a good drumbeat, they might be able to hold it together for more than a minute at a go, and they're losing it again. Worse, Gene is even less polite in bed than she'd given him credit for. That's practically a nightmare in and of itself. She lets Sam go. "Fuck," she says, "just--"

Sam makes a strangled noise. "God, don't stop."

"Sorry, but--" She grabs Gene's wrist and pulls his hand off her hip, moving his fingers around to her clit. She could do with a little less realism in her dream, she tells her subconscious. Not that it's listening, she's sure, or if it is, it's probably laughing at her. "There--nnn--better."

"God, Alex." Sam strokes her cheek. "I'm sorry."

"What for?" Alex asks. He hasn't come in her mouth, pushed her head around, or tweaked her ears. By all normal standards of behavior, he's been a gentleman.

She can hear a smirk in Sam's voice as much as see it. "I can't take him anywhere."

Gene snorts. "And you'd be the one to tell me--to tell me what to do with a bird, would you."

"Yes--oh--God, please--" Sam shivers when Alex starts again. "I--I know better than you, apparently--oh, Alex, Jesus--"

Alex closes her eyes and focuses on the way Gene's fingers and cock feel, the way Sam tastes and the way his hips jerk, rather than the bickering. Who the hell bickers in the middle of a threesome? There's no point, no resolution, and they're not really there, so she's not listening. If she moves just--just so--she can get herself off, if everything keeps going right just long enough--

Gene doesn't let her down, for once, and Sam's quiet, or quiet enough that she doesn't have to block him out, the two of them working together, working with her, filling her and making her be there for them until she comes, focusing on keeping her jaw loose and ignoring whatever desperate noises she makes.

They're muffled, at any rate.

"Fuck, Alex," Gene says, losing the rhythm all over again, but he can't leave her behind now.

Sam pushes urgently at her shoulder. "Alex, I--please, just, use your hand, I--"

They're not quite in sync; the dream gods of bow-chicka-wow haven't blessed them with that on top of whatever partnership they had before, if they had one, if either of them has ever met the other. It's impressive nevertheless, with Gene moaning a string of obscenities in her ear, some of which she can't define off the top of her head, and Sam clutching at her hand on his cock, using her fingers to find the right speed until he comes hard, his other hand over his mouth to muffle something.

Alex loses track for a while after that, between the orgasm and the alcohol and the fact that she's been asleep the whole time, though she wakes up partway--or wakes into another dream--when someone, Sam, comes after her with a washcloth. "Get some rest, Alex," he says, and strokes her hair.

Gene kisses her forehead, she thinks, and she's too far under to mock him for it. "Night, Bolls. Be a good girl."

She can't be bothered to wake up enough to argue with him.

In the morning, Alex wakes up alone, feeling well-laid and hungover. She smirks at herself in the mirror, wondering what brought that dream on.

She isn't the least bit prepared for Gene to greet her with, "There you are, Mary. Late to meet our new transfer and all, back from an undercover assignment," or to have to meet the new transfer's eyes and know precisely what he looks like in the middle of an orgasm.

Alex is sure she's gone beet red. "Hello, Sam."

He's no better, which is some consolation. "Good morning, Alex. Good to see you again."

She says, "I'm sorry, just a moment," and spends the next five minutes in the ladies' room laughing at her subconscious and its taste in constructs.


End file.
